


Fidelis

by hornblowerfic_archivist



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-17
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 08:45:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6232084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hornblowerfic_archivist/pseuds/hornblowerfic_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A/U.  After serving in Operation Iraqi Freedom,  MGSgt. William Bush rebuilds his life in the present while rebuilding his memories of the past.  Forgive any military type errors, please.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Hornblowerfic.com](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hornblowerfic.com). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in January 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [Hornblowerfic.com collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hornblowerfic/profile).

Alexandria, Virginia

The only time Bush's imagination functioned, if at all, was in his dreams. After all, he was, is, and ever would be a solider -- a Marine, no less. Semper Fi. Hoo-rah. The toughest of the tough, albeit not usually the brightest of the bright, which, in the beginning, had made Bush wonder why his CO had joined the Marines in the first place. At times, Hornblower seemed too smart to be an effective Marine, but Bush had been proven wrong and was happy to admit it even there were still many, many things about his Captain that Bush simply didn't understand. Many things. Many decisions. Many quirks.

Still, Bush, being the man that he was, never questioned or doubted. Marines, even a Master Gunnery Sergeant like Bush, weren't supposed to have imaginations, either. They weren't they supposed to have dreams like -- but there, Bush deviated. He dreamed, and when he woke from a dream, he would feel guilty, as if he'd gone AWOL, fallen asleep on watch, or had forgotten to hydrate on a hot desert morning before a full-pack ten-mile march. A good Marine, especially, followed orders. It was not his job to dream, and Bush, being the man that he was, never enjoyed shirking his duties, even though the dreams sometimes let him forget his life in the Corps was, for all intents and purposes, over. He could forget, for a blissful moment, that he was no longer a whole man.

On other nights, though, Bush would be reminded of the state of affairs by those selfsame dreams. He would wake up sweating, a little bloody from the nails of his fingers digging into the palms of his hands.

There was one dream in particular: he was an officer on a ship -- not a modern carrier or battleship -- but a yellow and black wooden one, with masts that Bush thought could scrape the sky. The sails were white as milk, and rocking of the ship lulled him into a sense of security and safety. The wool of the uniform he wore itched a little, but there was smooth linen in his sleeves and shirt. An immense cocked hat shaded his eyes from the sun, and he stood at the rail of the ship. There was nothing but possibility, favorable wind and blank canvas.

And then the sea creature came.

It was massive. Enormous. Bush never saw much of the creature, but its tentacles ran over the ship, taking his shipmates. Even one of the tentacles was as large as the central mast, and someone, in a panicked tone, called his name. A hand in blue and gold reached to save Bush, and he strained to reach it.

He knew that hand; in fact, he loved it, but he could not reach it, and the creature took him into the water.

A bell rang, and the creature took off his leg. The pain was excruciating, and Bush reached to try and feel what had happened. His hands closed around sea water and the empty cloth of his trouser leg. The bell rang again, and the sea creature disappeared. He was face-down and alone, drifting in the ocean and bleeding into water that was already red. He could not breathe; he could not feel any of his limbs, especially not his leg, and --  
Bush had woken from the dream at the fourth bell. It had been the phone. Hornblower was on the other end.

"Bush? You up, Chief?"

"Yeah, Chuck. I'm here." Bush scrubbed at his face. The pain in his leg -- especially the part that wasn't there -- was excruciating. It always was in the morning before he could take his meds, and there were tears on his face, too. Probably left over from the dream.

"You have ten minutes, Sergeant. On deck and ready to move." Hornblower sounded cheerful, almost happy.

Bush had to close his eyes and take a deep breath before asking if Hornblower was going to bother to pick him the fuck up.

*~~~~~*

Barbara met them at the clinic. Why she wanted to be there, Bush didn't know. Maybe she thought it was some momentous occasion, maybe -- Christ -- maybe she wanted to do a story on him. She'd been trying to get him to sit in front of the camera for years, starting from the first time, in Desert Storm all those years ago, when Bush was a Corporal, and she was an embedded journalist for NBC. That time, she asked for the interview with an ulterior motive -- to get closer to the lieutenant in Bush's platoon. Hornblower.

Bush had refused then, and he refused, again, when she wanted to do a story on him in Iraq, when he and Hornblower led the raid on one of the Hussein family homes. Last time Barbara wanted to plop Bush in front of the camera was when he and Hornblower got off the plane in Germany -- when Bush was weak as a kitten, lying on a stretcher, starving, and near death from not only the loss of his leg, but an extended captivity at the hands of the unrelenting enemy -- the enemy who either knew nothing of, or simply ignored the tenets of the Geneva Convention.

Each time, and in different ways, Bush refused. He would refuse again. Barbara had to know the reason why Bush eschewed the camera, but yet, she persisted, which pissed Bush off to no end.

Nonetheless, there she was, blonde hair with large curls buffeted by the wind, dressed in a pretty, expensive-looking blouse and tailored jacket over a pair of tight, faded jeans -- the anchorwoman's uniform. Hornblower double-parked in a diagonal space in front of the clinic, and when he spotted Barbara, he waved warmly at her.

"What's she doing here?" Bush asked, his foul mood suddenly doubled.

"She's here for you, Chief," Hornblower said, woodenly. "You may not think so, but she really does care about you."

Hornblower had married Barbara on coming home from Iraq; it was quiet in the car until Hornblower went to the trunk to get Bush's crutches.

*~~~~*

Bush had always been Chief. It was a standard nickname for sergeants – and it fit him especially well given the presidential connection of his surname. Bush had been known as chief ever since he first made the rank. He looked like a sergeant; he spoke and acted like one. The joke was that Bush had been born pissed at a PFC, whereas Hornblower had come by his nickname a little more specifically: one of Hornblower's fellow commissioned officers had gotten drunk and called him "Chuck" as in Chuck Mangione. Hornblower, Horn-Blower. A few hummed bars of "Feels So Good."

That was all right by Bush, who was coming on watch at that point. Commissioned officers called each other what they wanted; they sorted it out between themselves in whatever rarefied, high-class way they wanted. It was almost funny, in fact, since Hornblower couldn't hold a tune if he had a tarp and a mile of duct tape.

The problem had come when the other officer had gone after Hornblower with a little more venom: "I'll call you Chuck fr'm now'n, cause, y'know," the man had said, grimacing in mock disgust. "Horatio. That ain't no name worthy of a Marine -- that's a fucking faggot name."

He was getting into Hornblower's face -- first, hitting him on the shoulder, then pulling him close with one shoulder. There was a bottle of Southern Comfort in his right hand, and Hornblower, barely a first lieutenant, had set his face into a mask and was staring straight ahead.

Bush had no such qualms. After one more look at Hornblower's face, stiff and pale, he threw down what he'd been carrying and threw himself at the bastard with everything he had.

Much to Hornblower’s dismay, the name stuck -- at least among the commissioned officers. Once he'd gotten out of the brig, Bush discovered that he was the only NCO who could get away with calling Hornblower that.

*~~~~*

Tikrit, Iraq

Someone ripped the blindfold from Bush's eyes, and there was overpowering light in his eyes. Too bright, and Bush could do nothing -- he was powerless to shield his eyes from it. His hands were bound behind his back, and his head was being held upright and face-forward by what felt like the hands of a hundred men. Fingers ground roughly against his scalp, poking in his ears, his eyes, the hollow of his cheek, and it hurt. He closed his eyes against the light and tried to breathe, to calm himself, to remove himself from the torrent of fear and horror, along with the urge to vomit that was now building somewhere south of his right lung.

He squeezed his eyes shut -- the subtle facial gesture was taken as defiance and was summarily met with a punch across the face, and someone swore at him. The punch, Bush suspected, had broken his cheekbone. There had been the crack, the rush of pain, and he knew that he was cringing a little as the sticky blood dripped down onto his collar. Nevertheless, he did not cry out. He refused to cry out and, instead, made himself recite:

_I am the backbone of the United States Marine Corps, I am a Marine Non-Commissioned Officer. I serve as part of the vital link between my commander (and all officers) and enlisted Marines. I will never forget who I am or what I represent. I will challenge myself to the limit and be ever attentive to duty. I am now, more than ever, committed to excellence in all that I do, so that I can set the proper example for other Marines...._

But he couldn't finish. It was hard enough to see, and then, the lead captor put his face inches from Bush and bellowed again. Small drops of spittle landed on Bush's chin and battered cheek, and Bush made himself think of how the man's breath smelled like that gyros place in Chicago Heights that was closed down by the Health Department. The words, guttural, gruff, and ugly, remained unintelligible to Bush. Hornblower would have known what they meant; Hornblower could speak Arabic, and Bush suddenly and overwhelmingly wished Hornblower was there. He could keep the fear from getting too bad for himself, but where was Hornblower? Was he even still alive?

Bush wracked his brain to reconstruct what happened, but all he could recall with any clarity was riding in the passenger seat of the Humvee at the head of the convoy, listening to a happy Hornblower prattle on about how Barbara would be coming back to Iraq in two weeks. The rest was a blur of gunfire, rockets, and explosions, culminating in the the slow-motion sight of a Humvee toppling over directly above him, and the sound of someone screaming out his name.

The good thing about the man being so close was that he blocked out some of the light, and Bush could make out a little more. There were other men in the room; the walls looked concrete, and -- the light came from a stand set up by a tripod. A camera was being fixed onto tripod. Bush had seen videos like what he thought was about to be made in the beginning of the war, on the news -- videos of younger Marines, male and female, prisoners of war, just as he was.

Prisoner of fucking war.

But then, he had seen other videos, in training, on the internet. Videos of Coalition soldiers being shot, or even beheaded. Bush knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that there was near anarchy here, in Iraq, and different groups treated prisoners differently -- but that thought did not congeal. Instead, Bush felt panic -- an altogether foreign sensation -- begin to well up and take root in his chest. Bush didn't know if he wanted to scream or to lash out at his captors against his better judgment and training -- regardless, he was too weak and too sick to do either, so he just sat there, breathing heavily and trying to let the panic roll through him without too much damage.

His captors had obviously picked the sickest and, thereby, the weakest of their prisoners, and these bastards were going to parade him, or worse, kill him, in front of the camera, Al-Jazeera, the BBC World News, and ultimately, CNN.

CNN -- Barbara. Christ. She'd see the footage and would worry about Chuck.

Bush opened his eyes and surveyed the room. Empty, concrete, stifling hot, yet frigidly cold -- a void, gray nothingness save for the masked men in the room, the camera, and himself sprawled and bleeding anew on the floor. He saw no knives, no blades in the hands, pants, or pockets, of any of the men. Thank Christ, Bush thought -- at least they weren't planning on decapitating him. They were, however, armed to the teeth with high-powered Russian weapons. One blast from one of those at point blank range, Bush knew, would do the job just as well.

Bush winced and hissed in pain as one of the men, whether accidentally or purposefully, dragged a shoe across Bush's mangled leg. He wished he could remember how it got that way. The medical care was for shit here, that was for sure, and Bush resigned himself that if he didn't get out of this hell hole he would die here -- whether at the enemy's hands, or from the leg.

The camera whirred to life as the man behind it pressed the "record" button. Bush could see a tinge of red light mixed in with the harsh spotlight. "Name and rank," came a voice in harshly-accented English.

Bush remained silent.

"Name and rank."

Shit, Bush thought, looking down the length of his leg, those fuckers -- they blew my corps brand off. The wounded leg, the one Bush knew would have to come off, or it would kill him. It was also the leg where, as a new officer, his flesh was hot-branded with the simple letters, "USMC." Stung, and bled like a motherfuck at the time, and Bush bit his bottom lip raw with the pain of it, but he didn't care. He was a real Marine officer and the brand proved it.

That day, Bush remembered, was the proudest day of his life because, in part, of the pup lieutenant manning the branding iron -- Hornblower.

He looked into the light and lifted his chin.

"Name and rank." The man who had hit him before came forward a little to remind him of the consequences, but Bush kept on looking into the light and made himself breathe as normally as he could through the pain and the nausea that centered on where his cheekbone had been.

Even while they beat him, Bush concentrated on it. Thought about gyros from Chicago Heights. The expression on Hornblower's face when he talked about Barbara and what it meant to be a Marine, the toughest of the tough following the brightest of the bright.


	2. Part Two

*~~~~*

Alexandria, Virginia

Barbara plopped with an affected sigh into the back seat of Hornblower's Range Rover. After scootching to the center of the bench, she leaned forward between the seats -- between Hornblower and Bush -- and smiled, angling that smile and upturned chin toward Bush.

Bush kept his face straight, staring out the windshield, mustering up every bit of his Marine experience at standing to attention, but it was difficult with Barbara there her face inches from his ear. Her perfume, combined with the scent of her expensive hair products, was heady and intoxicating. The smell reminded him of Hornblower, in the mornings, when he came with wet curls flying to pick up Bush for physical therapy. A stray thought entered Bush's mind, with a surprising twinge of jealousy, that they must use the same shampoo and soap, and it must cost Hornblower a small fortune to smell like that.

"Doctor Marshall cleared you, everything's ship shape and ready to go... that's so exiting, I'm so happy for you!" Barbara paused, clearly waiting for a response from Bush. Receiving none, she continued. "Well, off we go, then, Will, on to the rest of your life."

As Hornblower stopped the Rover, waiting at the bottom of the Beltway on-ramp, Barbara reached up and patted Bush on the shoulder. He hated it when she did that -- that condescending touch with no true friendship behind it. He hated it when she called him Will; but he never had the heart to tell her off in front of Hornblower, especially when he was doing something so silly and so requiring of concentration as stopping before merging onto a major highway.

Much to Bush's relief, Hornblower finally floored the accelerator and brought the Rover up to 75 mph. Bush, leaning back in his seat, wondered what the fuck Barbara meant by that, "the rest of your life." What kind of shit was that? As far as Bush knew, they were headed to Fairfax to see some guy named Weintrob or Weinstein or Wein something who would fit him with a new foot -- a new state of the art foot with a state of the art support cup sculpted from some casts his doctor took at Bethesda four weeks ago. Although Hornblower assured, and even promised Bush that this guy was the best in the business, and that Bush would be walking to the car after the appointment, Bush, for the first time since knowing Hornblower, had trouble believing him. Deep down, though, Bush knew that Hornblower was right, because, for the past month, Tim and Maureen from therapy were really working on toughening up the skin and developing the muscles his stump.

Since the casts were taken, and since Bush first learned that he'd be fitted with a prosthetic, Bush imagined that this Weintrob guy would set him up with a crude wooden leg fastened with buckles and leather straps. He imagined that the thing would be heavy, cumbersome, and full of splinters, and that it would make a horrible thumping noise every time he took a painful step. He worried that the leg wouldn't work, or that it would break, or get burned, or crack, and that he'd be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life -- that he'd end up like some of those Vietnam vets he saw begging with cardboard signs along State Street when he was a kid.

Hornblower took the exit for Route 123 and headed south toward Fairfax. As they passed businesses and shopping areas and fast food joints, Barbara leaned forward again, again patted Bush congenially on the shoulder and sang, "we're almost theeeeeereeeeee."

Bush looked down at his shoulder, and then over to Hornblower. His lips curled up at the corners for his friend's sake, but Bush would not allow the smile to reach his eyes.

*~~~~*

Kuwait City, Kuwait

Hunger. Hunger so much that it hurt not only in the pit of his stomach, but in his bones, in his neck, down to his bloodied fingertips. Bush remembered very little of what happened after the beating in the camera room. He had no idea how long he had been captive, where he'd been, or how much time had passed at all. The only thing, in fact, that stood out in his mind from that place and that time was Hornblower -- Hornblower's voice saying, "Bush! Speak to me, Bush. Are you with me, Bush? Stay with me!" There was a giggle from Hornblower, high-pitched and a little hysterical, followed by a moment of silence where Bush knew that his captain was mastering himself.

Then, Hornblower's hand came to his cheek. It was warm and calloused, surprisingly steady. Hornblower was lightly tapping Bush's uninjured cheek, running his thumb gently along the same cheekbone, and he was commending Bush for refusing to tell the insurgents his name.

"If you would have coughed up your tag, you'd be dead by now. I mean, Bush. They hear that name and they'd think you were -- were -- I'm glad you kept quiet."

"They beat the . . . shit outta me… I felt like I'd been through a week's worth of blanket parties, sir." Bush managed a half-smile. There was anxiety underneath Hornblower’s steady tone and warm hand. He needed to reassure his Captain, to calm him. For a moment, in fact, that need was worse than the hunger. "I'm okay now, sir, feeling ship shape."

Ship shape. Right. Hornblower winced. He was unharmed, whole, with nary a mark on him but a small shrapnel scratch on his right cheek. Bush, on the other hand, was barely recognizable under the mask of bandages and broken bone that had buried his face for the past few days. Although healing, Bush still did not have his full vision for the swollen eyes, and could barely manage speaking because of a now butterflied gash on his upper lip.

Bush's stomach lurched and rumbled loudly as two corpsmen carried him up the gangway into the transport plane. Kuwait City, although not home, was as welcome a notion for Bush as anything he'd ever imagined. They had food in Kuwait City, didn't they? They would probably feed him.

It was the thought of food, as much as the pain of being put down, that made Bush groan as he was lowered onto the plane's med bunk in the rear of the cabin. Hornblower sat down in the jumpseat beside him and buckled himself. Bush heard the click of the buckles above the sound of the engines. "You're going home, Bush. Well, first to Germany, but then home. I'm sure of it."

"Yes," Bush said, "but why are you still here?"

"I was... granted some leave Bush," Hornblower waved a hand at Bush's tilted, dog-like, quizzical look. "Besides -- well, just leave it at that. I'm on leave, and I'm using that leave to, er." He sighed, and cleared his throat. "Make sure you get Stateside in one piece."

Again, there was something about Hornblower's demeanor that Bush did not comprehend, but again, it didn't matter. Bush's stomach did another turn, and it was difficult to keep from groaning.

"What's wrong, Chief?"

Bush licked his lips. He had been given water and a small amount to eat, but it wasn't enough. It had only been a half hour since he and Hornblower arrived in Kuwait City, and they had gone directly to the tarmac and into the plane.

It took Bush a moment to respond, not wanting to ask his Captain for anything, much less food; but the needs of his body overtook decorum. "Starving, sir."

The word took on new context here. Hornblower, sensing his own hunger, knew that Bush was likely, literally, starving. It had been at least five days since the explosion operation in Tikrit and Bush's rescue -- Bush was the only Marine found alive in the compound -- and Hornblower was only able to take six MRE's in his pack on the way out from Baghdad. He went by foot with two from his platoon, themselves loaded down with explosives, so three MRE's were already gone by the time he had reached Bush. Bush ate very little during their all-too brief respite on the way because of fever. Hornblower had no idea how many days Bush had gone without sustenance in captivity, and he shuddered at the thought. His friend was uncharacteristically thin and pale and weak, his skin dry and patchy, and Hornblower knew. Starving.

After the plane took off, Bush heard Hornblower unbuckle his seatbelt, rise, and head forward. A few moments later, Hornblower returned to Bush's side, a tray of food in his hands, and pillows under his arm. Bush was barely aware that Hornblower was propping him up by the shoulders with the pillows, and opening a pop top can, and then what sounded like a bottle of soda.

"Here, Chief," Hornblower said. "Eat up."

Hornblower spooned a small amount of crushed pineapple and canned pears into Bush's mouth. The sweet taste and cool sensation of the fruit in his mouth gained Bush a sudden burst of energy. He pushed himself up, grabbed the fruit cup from Hornblower with a shaking hand, and gulped it down in one mouthful, looking, like a child, to Hornblower for more. Hornblower smiled, and handed Bush the lemonade.

"Wash it down before you puke all over me."

During the rest of the flight, Bush asked Hornblower what seemed a million times what had happened back in Tikrit -- how he was taken prisoner before that, who else was there with him, how Hornblower had infiltrated and rescued them. Hornblower remained vague about his answers, but said something about having friends in high places and luck on the river.

When Bush realized that he wouldn't get any more more information out of Hornblower, he tried another topic. "How long have we been back in friendlyville, Chuck?"

"Just today," Hornblower replied. "Right before takeoff, really."

Bush frowned and looked down at his leg. "Last I saw, when I was in Tikrit, that leg down there -- it was a fucking mess and hanging on by a thread, but I still had it."

Hornblower knew the question was coming and braced for it.

Bush looked down at his leg one more time, looked at Hornblower some more, and then asked.

"So, who chopped it off?"

*~~~~*

Fairfax, Virginia

Eliot Weintrob had a hard face, Bush thought. Handsome, youthful, and cheerful enough, but hard, as if he himself had gone through something horrible in his own life. He was direct, keen, and focused. Bush wondered for a moment if this Weintrob guy was a Marine, but none of the signs were there.

Bush had been shocked when Weintrob greeted him at the door, grasping Bush's hand and addressing him as Mr. Bush, all but ignoring Hornblower and Barbara. Bush had never been treated this way -- as if he were the most important person in the room, and it unnerved him. It didn't seem right, and it was even stranger that Weintrob would turn to Bush and ask whether he wanted Barbara with him or just his captain.

It made Bush feel better to see, once Bush had made his wishes clear, Barbara flop into a seat and flip her thumb over a small device from her purse. She was completely absorbed. That woman, Bush thought, feeling more charitable towards her than he had for a long time. Always an angle, always a story. Never bored.

Weintrob then ushered him into a chair in what looked like a doctor's treatment room. Instead of an examining table, however, there was set of parallel bars with a mirror on the wall at the far end. Weintrob had followed Bush and Hornblower into the room, and once they were all in, he immediately -- and with something of a violent flourish -- grabbed hold of Bush's crutches. Bush instinctively leaned forward, reaching out a hand to snatch them back and missed, watching with shock as Weintrob opened the door and chucked them out into the hallway.

They clattered as they hit the tiled floor, and Bush found himself staring at them.

"Don't worry, Sergeant," Weintrob said cheerfully. "You won't need those after today -- if you do, I'll buy you lunch."


	3. Part 3

*~~~*

En Route to Hamburg, Germany

Bush tried to sleep on the plane, but couldn't. It was the first time in Bush's memory that he could not simply shut his eyes and drift off. Even in basic at Parris Island, sweltering and mosquito-ridden in the middle of the hot South Carolina summer, he could sleep -- much to the jealousy of his barrack mates. Now, no. His mind was overwhelmed, too much information, too much to recall, too much to piece together.

Images, and sensations, all foggy and incomplete, passed through his mind: the camera, the kicks to the chest and leg, then nothingness -- for how long nothingness? He remembered being force-fed dirty, fetid water and stale bread, then again, nothing. Then, there was an explosion, a flash of bright red light that he could see even through the black blindfold over his eyes -- then the voices. Even though he still couldn't understand a word of Arabic, he had grown used to the sound of it. In fact, the voices yelling in English had begun to sound strange.

He remembered the weakness, most of all, being unable to walk and having to endure the disgrace of being carried over someone's shoulder. It couldn't have been Hornblower, but Bush didn't care, and frankly, he didn't give a shit about being disgraced or embarrassed because he knew he was getting the fuck out of there.

There was very little else in his mind. If he concentrated, he could call up faded images of the river. The boat. The girl.

*~~~*

Fairfax, Virginia

The leg was weird, almost alien looking, and Bush was immediately apprehensive. The foot and leg itself was short, only about twelve inches tall, with a large clear plastic cup where the stump of his lower leg would fit. To Bush, the foot looked like a skinny shovel, or part of the suspension system in some newfangled military transport vehicle. Weintrob, however, assured Bush that this was his new foot, and that, in a very short time, he would become as used to it as his own foot. Bush didn't quite believe him on that front, but smiled and nodded nonetheless.

"Are you ready, Sergeant?" Weintrob asked, still grinning.

Bush nodded, and Weintrob handed him what looked like a thick, rubbery nylon bag, holding a metal ring and peg at the end of it. "Here, put this on, it's made of silicone so it'll be nice and cushy on your leg." When Bush didn't move, Weintrob said, "Let me show you how it goes." As Wentrob placed the stocking over Bush's leg, Bush looked up and saw Hornblower, his head tilted, his arms crossed, and an unreadable expression on his face, which made Bush a little uneasy and even warier than normal.

The stocking in place, Weintrob lifted the leg from the desk and set it down on the floor in front of Bush. Bush looked down at the leg and up at Weintrob, and down at the leg again, as he was completely unsure what to do.

"Your leg will fit right into this socket, Sergeant, but you have to stand up to put weight into it, so that the locking mechanism catches."

"But my crutches, I..."

"Remember, Sergeant, you won't need those," Weintrob smiled.

Bush looked to Hornblower again, who was now smiling. Not smiling -- the fucker was downright grinning, and now, the more Bush thought about it, the leg, the more he wondered about it. The thing looked high tech, and worse -- expensive.

"Go ahead, Chief. As they say, heave and wake the dead." Hornblower's smile broadened, and the twinkle in his Captain's eye told him something else. Bush knew at that very moment that the bill for this "superfoot," as Weintrob called it, was not being paid for by the US Government.

Bush pushed off from the chair and stood on one wobbly leg. "God," said Bush feebly, "how she heaves!" His voice was a mere mockery of confidence, and his eyes, blinking back tears of gratitude, stayed on Hornblower.

Setting his jaw, Bush transferred his weight to the other leg, and felt a satisfying rush of air out of the socket against the back of his knee. There was a click at the base of the socket, and a sudden feeling of -- Bush didn't know -- weight? Security? He overbalanced slightly on the prosthetic and stumbled. "God!" said Bush again. "Easy! Easy!"

Hornblower was in time to catch him, under the arm, and to stand him back upright. "Bravo Zulu, Bush! Everything ok?"

Bush nodded quickly. Steadying himself, he looked down, and regarded the foot for a moment -- this extravagant gift. It looked inhuman, like a devil's cloven hoof of the sort that would frighten the shit out of his old Aunt Martha and her old biddy friends from St. Kieran’s, but truth was, he didn't care. It was comfortable, natural, and more importantly, supporting his weight. Before he knew it, both Weintrob and Hornblower had released him and Bush was standing -- on his own -- on his own two feet.

"Well, I'll be damned." Bush said, bounced slightly on the new limb, and laughed. Yes, he thought, Barbara's right -- on to the rest of my life.

*~~~*

Iraq, unknown location

The girl was unlike any Iraqi woman Bush had seen. Given the average native's proclivity for covering herself from head to foot in clothing, in all honesty, Bush could say that he really truly never saw a single one. Hornblower told Bush the girl's Arabic name, but to Bush's addled mind, it sounded like Marie, so Bush called her that. Marie.

Bush had no memory of how they got to that place, but Hornblower mentioned something about the strength of Corporal Brown and a boat and the Tigris River. Then Bush had come-to and there she was, Marie, bent over him with, as far as he could tell through his bruised eyelids, a white smile, her thick hair loose, and these deep brown eyes. Despite the language barrier, Bush saw her and felt instantly at home.

The house was comfortable, full of Western touches like air conditioning and television and boxspring mattresses. It was Hornblower who spoke Arabic, it was Hornblower who could converse with, play all-night games of Kout Bo Setah with, and be good company for Marie and the man Hornblower said was her father in law -- who were obviously lonely and isolated in their own right -- and so it was, that Hornblower was the one who got to fuck Marie.

It wasn't surprising that Bush felt no jealousy -- toward Hornblower, at least -- but he could not say that his chest didn't twinge with the thought of them together, and the wondering about Barbara. Then again, to Bush, Hornblower knew what he was doing, and therefore there was no reason to question, regardless of his own feelings toward Barbara. It simply did not play into the equation.

It wasn't like Bush could do anything, or be of any attraction to Marie or anyone else in the shredded state he was in, so, fine. Hornblower got the girl, as usual. First Barbara, now Marie. Even Brown had found female company in one of the housemaids. To Bush, however, it was honestly and truthfully okay.

At least Hornblower could find some diversion and semblance of normalcy in all of this shit that had gone down over the past few days. Bush was satisified with just getting as peaceful sleep as possible. There was a point when the pain in his shattered leg started to subside, and a blissful numbness overtook it. It was strange, though, the look of horror on Hornblower's face when Bush told him the pain had gone.

Later, when Bush was in a hospital in Germany, Hornblower told him that Marie's father in law had paid a surgeon an incredible amount of money to travel during the night from Baghdad to their home, and more importantly, to keep quiet about it. When Marie's father in law offered to do this, Hornblower insisted that they instead leave, that they keep moving towards Kuwait City, where Bush could get treatment or transport. But Bush fallen into a fever that very evening. He had become delusional, and parts of his leg had begun to turn black. Hornblower knew they had to stay.

So, the amputation of Bush's leg took place on the parlor table, and half of the family's Egyptian cotton bed linens had been irreversably ruined.

*~~~~*

Fairfax, Virginia

Bush went back to Fairfax once more before, as Weintrob put it, he was "discharged" from the prosthetic clinic. That time, Weintrob presented Bush with the final version of his foot. The temporary clear plastic cup he had been walking in, and learing on, was replaced by a heavy-duty black carbon fiber shell, which Weintrob said would last five to ten years, if not more.

Anxious as he was to finish the appointment, Bush didn't realize while sitting in the examination room the full impact and importance of that permanent leg. It wasn't until he and Hornblower were in the car, and Bush reached down to scratch at an itch just underneath the cup, that he noticed the initials, USMC, and the Seal of the Marine Corps embossed -- right into the plastic -- on the outside of it.

Bush bit his bottom lip and traced a finger in disbelief over the letters. What was more amazing to Bush was that they were in the exact same place where his Marine Brand had been. He was crying, he suspected, but it wasn't that bad. There was reason. He could see those letters, see Hornblower pretending to keep his eyes strictly on the road, and as Bush wiped his face, he suddenly had the urge to let that leg carry him for a ten-miler in full pack. He knew that wouldn't work in the sorry shape the rest of his body was in, but the temptation was there.

For the first time in a long while, he wanted something.

*~~~~~*

Kuwait City, Kuwait

Bush had gotten used to women in the military: women in the Armed Forces went against every grain of every fiber of his being, but he had learned to tolerate them because, in uniform, and with these younger grunts, they proved themselves to have no effect on the efficiency of his men -- and that was what was important to Bush. In fact, on occaision, they were even useful, and there were thousands of them serving in Iraq. Some of them -- hundreds of them, probably -- were young, beautiful, tough and dedicated to their work.

Barbara Wellesley was all of these things, and yet she was different.

Hornblower had arranged for her to arrive at the helipad on the south end of the Kuwait base, and when she had finally arrived, Hornblower was very gallant, ducking under the rotors to help her down from the helicopter, guiding her carefully under the slowing blades. The woman knew damn well how to alight from a helicopter, but Bush didn't have the heart to say anything to Hornblower. With all of his gentlemanly qualities, Hornblower, to Bush, belonged in the Navy or the Air Force, not the Marines, but here he was all the same.

As they cleared the rotors, Barbara stood up straight under Hornblower's guidance. Bush stood to attention, and saluted her, his eyes fixed at a point just above her right shoulder. He and his men, in turn, were under orders from Hornblower to give her a full military welcome. There hadn't been a lick of sarcasm in Bush's demeanor the day before when he asked Hornblower if Danielson should play his trumpet for her. Nevertheless, Bush didn't understand why Hornblower responded by laughing and slugging him on the shoulder.

"At ease, Sergeant." Hornblower said, and Bush snapped from attention to the open stance. Hornblower cleared his throat, the noise gutteral in his chest. "Ms. Wellesley, you already know Master Gunnery Sergeant William Bush. You met in Desert Storm."

Bush finally made eye contact with her, and held out his hand. "Nice to see you, again, ma'am. Welcome to Delta Company and Operation Iraqi Freedom." Bush had practiced that for days. For him, it was a speech, and no matter how much he might resent the fact that he was going to be stuck with her until she got bored, he hadn't wanted to fuck it up. After all, she was Barbara Wellesley, and he was more than relieved not to have mixed up his words in front of such a celebrated lady.

There was something special about her.

"Sergeant Bush," she said, smiling a little. "I'm so happy to see you again. It's been a long time."

Bush smiled, lowering his eyes, fighting to suppress the flush in his cheeks as he remembered their first meeting all those years ago. Even then, Barbara had been bucking for time with Hornblower, but Bush truly couldn’t resent her for that. Given Barbara’s beauty and charm, Bush hadn’t minded being slightly used if it meant some happiness for Hornblower.

Barbara grinned, broad and genuine, in return. "I do hope to see more of you over the next few weeks." She took Bush's offered hand, shaking it with a force and strength such that, given how tiny she was, Bush was taken aback.

Over the past few years, Bush had seen her on the stateside television news, but seeing her then -- her blonde hair buffeted wild from the chopper wind, dressed in a desert-issue utility uniform, tight at the hips, the top buttons undone, her feet in a laced-up pair of high top Doc Martens -- Bush thought, as he did before, that she was simply beautiful, and given the way that she was looking at Chuck when she didn't think anyone would see her, Hornblower was the luckiest man in the world.

Yes, Barbara Wellesley would prove quite a distraction.

*~~~~~*

Alexandria, Virginia

Bush had wanted to run, and run he did. There were times, however, in the weeks following Bush's last visit to Weintrob where he felt clumsy and awkward -- like the leg was all wrong and was ill-fitting and simply foreign. There were other times, especially when Bush was running -- and he was grateful that he could run on it -- when he felt at one with the piece of machinery attached to his stump.

Bush knew that his feeling of union with the foot did not stem from the limb itself. Rather, it was his tendency to let his mind wander during his runs. He couldn't control his thoughts like Hornblower did. He couldn't work his body and focus his brain at the same time like Hornblower could -- to be creative, to solve problems. When Bush ran, his consciousness trailed into the past, into the memories.

The memories -- the painful ones -- always made him forget that his leg was pounding against a one-inch thick strip of bent metal instead of running atop his own flesh and bone.

Even worse, still, were the rare thoughts that crept in about what might have been. If... only if --

Huffing, Bush came to a stop at a bend in the trail. His breath was ragged, not so unusual these days given his condition and his shape, but it was getting better. What might have been and what could be always seemed to freeze him in his tracks.

The Marine Corps was his life. He wondered, now, if he would ever get that life back. He could run on the foot, why couldn't he stay in the Corps?

Bush resolved that he would talk it over with Hornblower that evening.

*~~~~~*

Az Zubayr, Iraq

Bush could not understand why Hornblower kept checking the radio, why he insisted there was something wrong with the cellular communication module Finch was carrying. Their directives were clear -- infiltrate, clear, and secure, no matter the cost. This building was vitally important to the operation. The neutralization of the high-level assets, meaning personnel, was paramount. In Bush's view, nothing would prevent him and his men from carrying out those orders -- except further orders. Bush thought for a panicked moment that Hornblower had been warned of a stop order, or a belay, but Bush could not figure out why.

The house lay one hundred yards to the north of their position, and Bush could see it clearly, even without the use of binocs. Even though he was one of the older Marines in this division, his eyesight was the best out of all of them. Better than 20/20 he was told, and he'd never had them done over with a laser. He was an old-fashioned man, after all, and Bush decided that he was glad of his vision because he was going to take his platoon in during the day. He'd been bucking for a fight, and if they went in at night, there wouldn't have been one. A slaughter, yes, which would have been okay, but not a fight.

Hornblower checked the radio again, and carried it away from the rest of the men so that Bush was unable to hear. Hornblower's face was set in its typical mask of indifference -- unreadable and unpenetratable to most, but Bush knew differently. Whatever Corps was telling him to do on the other end, Hornblower was not happy about it. Knowing Hornblower, Bush didn't know whether to be disappointed or become excited, so he fought his adrenaline to an even keel. Hornblower started walking back, and Bush could hear him say, "Aye," and watched as he returned the comm unit to Private Finch.

Hornblower picked up his weapon and hunkered down again, lying prone to Bush's right. Bush said nothing, waiting for word from Hornblower, which seemed to take ages. Bush hated it when Hornblower sat silently, but then, Bush also knew that Hornblower's brain was working, and it was the product of Hornblower's brain that had gotten them out of more scrapes than not, had won numerous victories for his unit and saved all of their asses three times over.

At the point when the silence became thunderous, Hornblower looked at his watch, adjusted his helmet, and ducked his head. His shoulders began to heave up and down slightly, a low noise emanating from Hornblower's chest. He was laughing. Christ almighty he's doing it again. Hornblower was laughing -- giggling -- which, Bush knew, meant that they were going in -- that it was time to move in, clean house, and kick some Hussein ass.

"Two waves, Bush. You lead the first -- take Styles and Matthews with you. Five minutes. Two whistle signal, then I follow with Corporal Wellard and the rest."

Bush grinned wolfishly and gave his M16 a final, good luck pat. "Aye, Captain."

He and twenty men marched forward, and entered the building. The Republican Guard was ready for him, with deadly weapons of their own and tables upturned for makeshift cover in the house. They did, much to Bush's utter glee, give a fight -- a solid fight, just as he knew they would.

After three minutes of near constant gunfire, Bush realized that he had run out of ammunition, and started battering away at the insurgents -- themselves out of ammo -- with the butt of his rifle. He could hear nothing, see nothing, or feel nothing but the battle, the fighting, and he relished every moment of it, the killing. He could feel the blood pulse through his neck, the sound of it reverberating in his head along with his own screams. He was in overdrive, autopilot, his mouth working of its own accord, yelling fuck-you's and sonofabitch's with every swing, every kick.

This was not the typical urban combat that Marines trained for. This did not involve ducking into corners, organized hand signals, sniping, and taking shots from behind cover. It was an out and out brawl. They were in a house, a single, lone, solitary building. Nothing around it. The place was teeming with at least fifty men, all fighting, some dying. Bush loved it. It made Bush think of home, and the bar fights at Mother's. Bush was in his element.

After putting out a blow that he know would hurt, Bush kept yelling, bellowing his guts out, his arm muscles tense, face contorted, fists clenched. He was looking for his next victim, but none came. There was no one left. Instead, there was silence in the building, bodies strewn everywhere, men panting, but silence all the same.

Then, there was Hornblower's voice.

"Holy shit, Bush. When you do a job, man, you do it right, don't you?"

It was then, after seeing Hornblower's expression, that Bush realized he was covered from his helmet to his boots in blood. It took only a moment more to realize that the blood was partially his own.

It was as if someone had thrown a blanket over Bush's head, the blackness had come on so powerfully. Before that, as if in slow motion, he saw Hornblower throw his M16 aside and lunge forward. Next moment, Bush felt a shock of pain as a strong pair of arms grasped him around the shoulders and chest -- and then he knew no more.

*~~~~~~*

Washington, D.C.

The scar itched. Bush had no idea why. The thing was completely healed -- all that remained of the wound was a shiny disk of scar tissue, yet it still itched. To this day Bush was flummoxed as to just how he got it. It was a chest wound, with the bullet entering just below his armpit. "Shit for timing," the corpsman had said. "You zigged, and the bullet zagged, and it caught you under the Kevlar." Luckily for Bush, the bullet remained very superficial -- but Bush had lost a lot of blood.

Nearly a year later, and the fucker still itched. Yet, Bush refrained from scratching as he sat uncomfortably, yet happily -- back in his dress uniform, white hat on his knee, in front of Colonel Pellew's desk.

"Captain Hornblower tells me your service record is impeccable."

"Yes, sir."

"I also understand that you have distinguished yourself in battle, Sergeant." Bush felt as if Pellew's eyes were boring into his skull and mining bits of his brain.

"Yes, sir."

"Unfortunately, you were taken prisoner during that convoy attack near Basrah, and you lost your foot?

"Yes, sir." Bush was desperate to tell the Colonel that, despite the loss of his foot, he was hardly disabled. In fact, Bush nearly told Pellew that his mile run had gone from a peak 6 minutes before the injury, to a peak 5.7 after -- thanks to the springy prosthetic combined with his new training regimen. However, Bush's experience with senior officers dictated that he keep his responses as short as possible. Not to mention the fact that the job Bush was interviewing for hardly required one to run a four-minute mile.

"Now, Captain Hornblower tells me that you may be interested in my posting."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you, Sergeant." Pellew stood, and Bush rose, snapping to attention. "I will speak with your Captain and inform him of my decision in the morning."

Bush saluted -- sharp and crisp. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Bush turned on his heels and began to stride out of the office, taking great care not to allow any sign of his slight limp to surface. As Bush was turning, however, he did glimpse a smile on Pellew's face. What that meant, Bush had no idea, but he was loathe to even venture a guess.

*~~~~~*

Kuwait City, Kuwait

After Bush returned from the Evac Hospital, recovered from his gunshot wound, he immediately received orders. The orders were simple -- he and Hornblower were to deploy a caravan of men, engineers, mechanics, parts, equipment, weapons, and other supplies to the newly established Coalition fortification in Al-Basrah, Iraq. Acting CO Buckland had briefed them on the mission ad nauseam without actually telling them anything useful, but Bush had been satisfied. He knew damn well that Buckland himself would only turn to jelly if he had to make the trip personally. Buckland was, for lack of a better word, weak. Last Bush heard, their real colonel was still was laid up in Kuwait City with some mysterious illness, or accident, or was shot in the ass, or was in the loony bin, or who knew what.

Over the weeks prior, Bush knew something was wrong with Sawyer from the erratic, violent behavior -- everybody had known, but nobody had been able to pin it down. Bush personally chalked up the outbursts to simply being a whacked-out Marine. Commissioned officers, particularly ones so far superior to even master gunnery sargeants, were entitled to their dose of it, and since Hornblower clammed up every time Bush brought up the topic of Sawyer, Bush assumed that the Colonel's erratic behavior, in fact, did have something to do with his strange and unexplained disappearance.

Despite Bush's presses for information, the workings of the Marine Corps, red tape, and Hornblower's mysterious stubborness kept all information save Sawyer's location from Bush. All he knew, or all he had to know, was that Buckland was now in command and would be the person to design and provide the orders to implement the operation -- God save them all.

*~~~~~*

Elmhurst, Suburban Chicago, Illinois

As much as Bush was bored and dissatisfied with the recruiting position Pellew had given him -- a desk job -- there were four redeeming qualities about it. First, the position was near Chicago, and he was able to spend a great deal of time with his sisters, who continued to dote on him -- and set him up frequently on dates with their beautiful friends.

Second, the recruting station was situated on the campus of Elmhurst College. After a few discussions with the athletic director, Bush had free access to both the indoor and outdoor tracks, the weight room, and he was given free reign to run and train with the cross-country team at his leisure. In return, Bush only had to, now and again, give a motivational talk about his experience in Iraq and the loss of his foot to EC athletes. Bush never had a way with words, and was terrible at giving speeches, but he had Hornblower, albeit long-distance, to help him come up with talks and to provide a boost of confidence over the cell phone or e-mail.

Third, the job meant a promotion. He was now Chief Warrant Officer Bush, and he wore the red and brass bar with indescribable pride; less so of the promotion itself, moreso of the man who he knew deep down helped him gain that promotion -- Hornblower.

Fourth, he was still in a Marine.

*~~~~~~*

Chicago, Illinois

It was Hornblower who surprised Bush by meeting him at the finish line. Eight months of training, 26.22 miles through the streets and the autumn skies of Chicago, sweat wicking off the USMC t-shirt, countless cups of Gatorade, one shot of PowerGel, two Clif Bars, thousands of pounding strides on the cool October pavement, and there was Hornblower. Hornblower, who met Bush with an embrace, a grin, a USMC flag -- and an officially-sealed Marine Corps envelope.

Once Bush recovered from nearly bonking at the end of the race, Hornblower pointed Barbara out to him -- she was off to the side in the press area, covering the Marathon, and some Congressman from Illinois who was running in it, for CNN.

After opening the envlelope, Bush realized he should, after all, finally grant Barbara that interview.

*~~~~*

En Route to Al-Basrah, Iraq

Hornblower spent the first hour in the Humvee in relative silence -- silence other than Bush's Collective Soul CD playing at a low volume, and the low thrum of the engine. Mere background noise. Bush didn't mind the silence. He was not one of those men who grew impatient or uncomfortable in the absence of conversation -- in fact, he often preferred it.

Bush still felt the occasional twinge of pain from his chest wound, which he jokingly called the "scratch." Bush was actually embarrassed when Hornblower presented him with a Purple Heart after one day's stay in the Evac Hospital, but he took it with a smile and a great deal of gratitude. This, despite the fact that there were men more seriously wounded in that skirmish who deserved the Purple Heart more than he did.

It was of no matter now, because Bush was back on his feet and back where he belonged. Even if this bit of work would be tedious, there was always the unknown potential for action that stirred Bush, not to mention the hanging unknown of their Colonel's condition.

"Have you heard anything 'bout Colonel Sawyer, sir?" Bush asked Hornblower, his desire for information overwhelming his enjoyment of the silence.

"Heard?" Hornblower raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, heard?"

"Well, you were there, sir, when they took . . . " Bush checked himself, "When he went . . . when he left."

The muscles in Hornblower's face tensed until they appeared as solid as stone. "The Colonel, Sergeant Bush, is indisposed," he said, articulating every syllable slowly.

That face, that expression, the carefully chosen words -- Bush knew right then and there the conversation was over. He fell again into silence, picking with his index finger at a spot of crusted sand on the clip of his M16, and again listening to the low vibration of the Humvee engine -- an engine in desperate need of a tuning and a new catalytic converter, Bush thought.

"She'll be back, you know, in a couple of weeks," Hornblower said, absentmindedly, after a time.

"Who, Barbara?"

Hornblower sighed. Embarrassed, he quickly turned the waning sigh into a throat-clearing cough. "Yes. Ms. Wellesley. She'll be back. She wants to talk to you, you know. Get you in front of the camera for an interview."

Before Bush could reply that they had a better chance of Osama appearing on CNN in a pink dress singing the Star-Spangled Banner, his eyes were blinded by a violently white light, there was a percussive blast, and Bush felt a sudden heat sear his face and hands. "We're under fire!" Bush managed to choke out a warning to Hornblower.

Hornblower turned the steering wheel violently to the left, causing the Humvee to lurch wildly, losing control in the thick sand off the roadway. The vehicle came to a stop in a high dune, its wheels spinning. "Bail out!" Hornblower ordered.

Not thinking twice, Bush shouldered his M16 and moved to push open the side door. The handle was red hot, burning the flesh of his right hand. He leaned back and kicked at the door with his boot, and the metal went flying off the hinges. Bush clambered out of the Humvee and placed his weapon in a firing position, using the gun to guide his eyes in a search for enemies. Having immediately found none, he surveyed the rest of the caravan.

Nearly every vehicle was on fire, toppled over, or otherwise disabled. There must have been an entire barrage of ground missles fired at them. He heard screams coming from the rear of the line where the engineers and mechanics were riding. Unable to do anything to help them, his instinct was to find and protect Hornblower. He ran around the blazing wreck of the Humvee to the drivers side, all the while shouting Hornblower's name.

Then he heard it. A loud, trilling wail in a human voice -- triumphant shouts in that guttural, foreign language. Bush turned his back to the Humvee and aimed his weapon in the direction of the voices -- he could not see with the blanket of black smoke woven from the burning rubber tires. When he returned to the memory, Bush saw that he had made a mistake. He should not have turned his back on the vehicle: at the moment Bush found a target and was about to fire, he heard someone bellow his name, "Bush!"

Before he could respond, he was knocked forward by an unimaginable force -- sending a shockwave of pain from the small of his back down both legs -- one leg in particular. He called out with the realization that he was trapped beneath the dead weight of the upturned Humvee, and was completely unable to move. Bush tasted acrid, bitter smoke and felt grit in his mouth. His hand still felt as if it was on fire. His weapon -- the M16 he took an oath to protect and treat as his own child -- lay discarded some two yards away and out of reach.

Bush, teetering on the edge of consciousness, felt hands grasp him roughly by the arms and armpits, pulling him free of the wreckage, the movement sending his already agitated sensory nerves into overdrive. The words and shouts echoing in his ears were not in English, and Bush knew at that moment, beyond all other moments, that he was in serious trouble. Mustering all of his strength, he filled his lungs with air and shouted, "Hornblower!"

Bush couldn't tell if Hornblower had heard him, how well the sound carried -- if it did at all amongst all the chaos and fire and explosions. However, he would not find out, as there immediately came a new pain. This was sharp, sudden, and violent, starting at the back of his head, radiating down, flashing through his face, neck and shoulders. Bush lost focus in his eyes -- he blinked wildly and desperately, fighting to stay awake, as his entire world shrank and shrank inward until it was a mere pinpoint of light -- and then nothing.

*~~~~~*

Chicago, Illinois

Bush squinted, shading his eyes from the camera's light. Even after all of Barbara's assurances, and the shield of Bush's own renewed confidence, he knew he would have difficulties. Too many reminders. The visual sensation of a shaky camera light combined with the sound of whirring videotape loops was entwined in Bush's mind with the memory of pain. Despite the months that had passed, it took effort to fight down the panic.

Barbara placed a gentle hand on his. "Wait a minute, Jack," she said to her cameraman. Then, to Bush. "Are you all right, Will?"

Bush looked at her and made himself let out the breath he had been holding. "Let's get this over with."

Bush's mind, for a time, had been blissfully unaware of the worst of what had happened in Iraq. There had been this lovely, yet somehow irritating, gap of time where Bush knew he underwent the most horrible of ordeals, yet his brain would not allow him to reconstruct it. That time had passed, and Bush's memory, over the past few weeks, had crystallized again into clarity.

From his captivity, to his rescue and escape, Marie's healing touch, the flight into Germany, and the last piece of the scattered puzzle, the attack near Basrah -- he remembered it all now. Bush, in spite of the quiet, reserved man that he was, felt compelled -- no, obligated -- to tell his story and share his memory.

It was that memory that Barbara Hornblower sought to tap. Barbara gave her cameraman the OK signal, and he held out five fingers, counting down. Five, four, three , and then lowering the other two fingers silently. Jack pointed at Barbara, who immediately composed herself into a semi-casual, interview posture in the overlarge wingchair of the hotel room. After the introductory questions, Barbara moved into the heart of the interview.

"You had just received orders -- is that right?"

Bush smiled stiffly. "Yes, I did. Just yesterday, in fact."

"Yesterday, as in right after you finished running the marathon here in Chicago?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"That's quite a feat, isn't it?"

"Not really, ma'am."

"Well, for you it is, isn't it, William?" Bush was profoundly grateful that she didn't call him, "Will" for the camera.

"Not really," Bush gave a cocked-grin. "what makes you say that?"

Barbara knew Bush was teasing. "Your foot. It's not every day that an amputee such as yourself can run in and complete the Chicago Marathon, is it?"

"I suppose not."

"But you did."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Congratulations, William."

"Thank you."

"How long did you train for this?"

"Eight weeks just for the marathon, but I've really been in some sort of training or another ever since I came back stateside. There was nothing I wanted more than to be back on my . . . well," Bush blushed a little and averted his eyes, "my feet."

"And here you are." Barbara beamed.

"Yes, ma'am. Here I am."

"Why don't you tell me about the orders you received yesterday, if you can."

Bush thought for a moment. "I've been redeployed to the Middle East, if that's what you mean, but you know I can't say where, and I can't say much else." He couldn't hide the pride in his voice.

Neither Bush nor Hornblower had told her about the contents of Bush's orders, so the surprise in Barbara's voice was genuine. "Wow! William, that's amazing! Redeployed, my God! I'm so happy for... " she checked her excitement, remembering that she was interviewing. Bush could almost see her making a mental note to edit that outburst. Taking a deep breath and a pause, she continued, composed. "That's quite a feat, too, isn't it?"

Bush gave a single, breathy chuckle through his nose. "Not really, ma'am."

"I have heard of a few cases where the Air Force has put amputee pilots back in the air again, but, William, how often is it that the Marines would redeploy a solider, with, pardon my words here, a disability?"

"Not very often, as far as I know." Bush paused. "But I am a solider, and I'm not disabled, am I?"

He was smiling as he looked directly at both the camera, and the strong light atop it.

*~~~~~*

Washington, D.C.

Barbara wasn't happy, and Bush knew it. Hornblower, on the other hand, seemed oblivious. He simply grinned at her, basking in the glow of her smile (albeit strained), her sparkling eyes, her pride, and her unwavering love. Bush knew deep down that she was putting on a show of bravery for Hornblower, seeming the gladdened wife of a mighty soldier -- which she truly was -- but bravery wasn't foremost in the spin of her churning emotions.

Barbara, in reality, was worried, scared, and apprehensive. Bush could see it in the way she straightened the fabric on Hornblower's shoulders, smoothed the wrinkles from the chest of his fatigues, ran her fingers over Hornblower's nameplate, and adjusted the shiny new insignia on his collar. Yes, Horatio Hornblower, now a Major, was back in uniform, and, much to Barbara's chagrin, was heading back to Iraq, as was Bush.

This to Bush, was a miracle in and of itself, but even better was the fact that he was returning to action, albeit on semi-limited duty. He knew he would never see the front lines again, but he knew he would be useful, more than useful, in a role of special operations, command and discipline, and that suited him just fine. He had passed every one of the physical examinations and fitness tests run at Bethesda, and had shown, time and time again, that he could outrun even those bulked-up Marines fresh from basic. In reality, the foot did not interfere with carrying or firing a weapon, ducking, taking cover, or any of the other manuevers required in the field. The springy design of the foot gave Bush a distinct advantage when walking through dense sand -- and in the occasional sand volleyball game. The US Marine Corps would never send an amputee into true battle, but Bush was satified with just having a place in the Corps.

Barbara, too, had a distinct advantage over other Marine officer's wives. She, by her profession, could come and go to Iraq as she pleased, using the privileges of her editorial position at CNN. While most political editors at major news outlets would send other reporters to embed or cover significant events, Barbara Hornblower would travel there herself. What was touted in the press reviews as gritty, basic, hands-on journalism and bravery, Bush knew was, in reality, love for Hornblower.

Bush knew he would see Barbara again, and this time, he was glad of it. Anyone who could love Hornblower as much as he did, or more, deserved nothing but respect. What was more, the interview she took of Bush was done artfully and tactfully -- and the news piece she ultimately did on his story paid Bush a loving and heartfelt tribute he could not have otherwise expected or even wished for. Bush would never have admitted it, but he was a hero by virtue of his own actions, and Barbara made sure the world knew about it.

Iraq would be different this time. Bush's involvement in it would be limited, but there would still be action. There would still be fighting, as long as there remained people and factions loyal to Hussein, but yet, things had changed enormously. What started out as a tenuous and thin-stringed operation had taken a strong foothold, and Bush was more than proud of the scrabble-up operation and its apparent success. This time, the transport plane Bush and Hornblower flew in would land right in the middle of Baghdad, what was once deep into enemy territory, at the Saddam -- no -- the Baghdad International Airport.

Just the thought of maybe seeing United Airlines and American Airlines' planes landing and taking off from that strip made Bush's heart leap. He could see the desert in his mind, and he could almost feel what it would be like to walk there again.

*~~~~~*

He had not dreamed of the sea creature in weeks: it had been a recurring nightmare, and even when it hadn't come to him in his sleep for weeks, he would still think about it.

And yet, it had stopped on that cool day in October after the marathon, when Hornblower handed him the envelope containing his ship-out orders. It was the day he learned he would be returning to Iraq, his career, his life in the Marines, the only life he knew. That day, he knew that nothing, not even that horrible, faceless monster, could take his happiness away from him -- his life, perhaps, in action, but not his living.

That, in fact, was the last night that Bush dreamed of the creature. That time, however, the white hand sleeved in gleaming braid and blue wool reached him, took a firm grasp of his hand, and held firm.


End file.
